


Superbowl Parties

by veterization



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:11:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veterization/pseuds/veterization
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Packers have won the Superbowl, and Jared is a little over-enthusiastic in his celebration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superbowl Parties

Superbowl parties are almost always a bad idea.  
  
There's teetering bowls of chips and dip that radiate the promise of staining carpets and couch cushions the shades of fresh guacamole and the crimson tint of chunky salsa. There's loud men, divided by an invisible line on the couches by the sudden color change of the jerseys donned by all but one misfiring cell sitting in the armchair who seems to be playing the neutral party. However, everyone is too busy being entranced by the sight of men tackling and being tackled through the television to worry about the lack of comradeship.  
  
And worst of all, there's alcohol. Packs of beers and empty bottles are littered about the floor, some knocked over through the boisterous crowd of tipsy sports enthusiasts and lolling about the ground, others stacked on counter tops in a growing army of glass. The entire room reeks of pepperoni pizza and open bottles of beer, not to mention the manly stench of loitering testosterone that always seems to arise when football blares from the sound systems. Jared walked into the apartment mid-roar and it still seems to be roaring away now, at least always one man on his feet and shaking his fist at the referee.  
  
And through the stuffiness of a myriad of shouting men and Jeffrey Dean Morgan shoving chilled beers into his fingers every time his bottle empties as if he's in the back producing them, Jared finds himself caught in the Quite Stupid Moment of now with capital letters and the panic that goes along with them, which happens to be his mouth pressed against Jensen's.  
  
He remembers, vaguely, how he got here. He knows it involved the eighth beer Jeff pushed into his hand and the rush of exhilaration that flew through his veins when the sea of green Packers fans all shot up from their couches like rockets when the feeling of success sunk in. He blames the celebration, the kind of exuberance he feels when he unwraps gifts on his birthday or when the ball drops on New Year's Eve, and all that's really missing is the confetti.  
  
He also recalls jumping off his cushions with the momentum of four other cheering men also springing off, reaching straight for Jensen's arm and yelling matching hoorahs into each other's faces before somehow, other people's explosions and celebrations bump them closer and with Jensen's face nothing but a blur of skin and _perfectly_ aligned teeth, Jared's happiness surged up enough bravado for him to smash his lips onto Jensen's.  
  
It could have been short. He could have pulled away after a moment's smack and written it off as Jared Padalecki's touchy and over affectionate manners especially in the heat of celebration. He really, _really_ didn't have to involve any tongue.  
  
And this is where he stands now, past the point of no return and into the pit of humiliation, his eyes wide open and his mouth still fused onto Jensen's, fingers gripping his forearms and tongue actually probing at the seam of Jensen's lips.  
  
Jensen stops jumping when he realizes that there's someone's face collided onto his own, namely, _Jared's_ , and when Jared feels the twitch of recognition from Jensen's body, he promptly draws his tongue back into his mouth and pulls back wetly.  
  
They stare at each other for a moment. The Steelers supporters are too busy murmuring in discontent or throwing couch pillows or in some cases, acquiescing to their loss, while the Packers fans are too busy bumping chests and beer bottles and clapping at the television as though the players can hear their applause to notice anything going on between the two frozen men in the middle of the room.  
  
Jared isn't quite sure what to say. He _does_ know that this is the moment where he says something, something reasonable, something explanatory, something that ultimately excuses his borderline absurd actions. Except his mind isn't thinking of excuses; it's gone blank, like the interminable _beeeep_ that courses through the phone during a busy call. Maybe Jared can't think of any excuses because there aren't any. Maybe he doesn't want there to be any.  
  
"So, uh." Jared says, and he thinks, a little meekly, that this might be one of the first time he's at a loss for words. He barely even believes that Jensen's ever seen his face when his mouth wasn't moving at two hundred miles per hour. He wants to rather be addressing the chip bowl, or Aaron Rodger's gleaming face as he's interviewed on his terrific win, but somehow Jensen's eyes seem to capture his attention to a degree that is somewhat scary, as if looking away would make the situation worse.  
  
He's hoping Jensen will laugh or ignore what just happened and focus his attention on the Superbowl, except that he thinks that this might be a situation more monumental and more super than the Superbowl. There might be physical harm or a wordless distance that will pierce through Jared like an ice pick for the rest of the night until he can prod Jensen about it when they're not surrounded by an audience.  
  
The only physical harm that Jared actually ends up sensing, however, is the smash of Jensen's nose bending his own at a slightly cumbersome angle and the burn of evening stubble rubbing together. And then, when Jared forgets about that, he realizes that the pressure on his lips is Jensen's mouth.  
  
It's a bit different from last time. It's not quite as impulsive, even if Jensen's lips are a little off target and rubbing against the corner of Jared's mouth, but that's not what Jared's focusing on. Jensen has his hands on Jared's hips, two fingers hitching up the hem of his shirt to feel along the hot strip of skin exposed around his waist, and to hell with public displays of attention, Jared presses himself closer like he's an amoeba digesting its meal and cups his cheeks. Jensen's mouth is _hot_ and _wet_ and when his tongue licks into the cavern of Jared's mouth, he lets out the breath he didn't know he was caging in.  
  
It's not minutes long and the rest of the world doesn't start playing a symphony and cupids don't sprinkle fairy dust onto their shoulders, but it's good. And when they pull apart, hands still reaching for each other's bodies and resting on their arms as the realization kicks in that no one has any deer-in-the-headlight stares and there aren't any homophobic diatribes amiss, their eyes meet, and in that split second, the years of close-knit teamwork seems to temporarily form a telepathic link that speaks the same thing: _why weren't we doing this sooner._  
  
Needless to say, it was not just the Packers who won something amazing that night.


End file.
